“Jesus! That’ll be . . .” But words failed him. Words never failed Terrence. “Your aunt or uncle? Come on, sit down, Liza Jane. I’ll pour you a drink.”

He put a glass of Scotch in my hand, and I bolted it, letting the warmth suffuse inside of me. He wadded his discarded drafts for kindling, and soon a fire snapped and warmed the place. I put my feet in his lap and I told him that I feared Jonathan had fathered Denise’s baby, that I was certain they’d been having an affair for months, though I had no proof except for the Packard in front of Casa Fiesta that day, and a glimpse of bright blonde hair in the window.

“Well, that sounds pretty damning.”

“I think Irene and Gordon suspect too.”

“Doesn’t matter. You can’t be sharing that outside these walls, Liza Jane. No good can come of it.”

I sipped my drink. “I know. And there’s other bad news. Irene took me to Empire to see a full cut of Fly Me to the Moon this afternoon. Jonathan is great. Denise is . . . well, she doesn’t stink or anything. I hate to say it, but actually, she’s a competent actress, but Maisie is supposed to be brainy, and Denise is too voluptuous. Audiences will look at her and think Professor Bleeker must be some kind of eunuch if he doesn’t want to get her into bed. The casting is out of balance.”

“Is that what Leon thinks?”

“Leon has tossed the whole thing back in the laps of Gordon and Phil and told them to fix it. Gordon knows he better by hell do just that, and it might be killing him.” A knock sounded at the door. We both startled. “What if it’s Popeye?” I whispered.

Terrence went to the door, and I stood behind him. As he opened it I felt like I was in a scene from The Asphalt Jungle or some other gritty noir film, because standing there in the rain was a tall, thin, hawk-faced man with long gray hair wearing a trench coat and a fedora. But behind his thick glasses, his eyes were a lively green.

“Jerrold!” I cried. “Jerrold Davies! What are you doing here! Come in!” I pulled him inside and quickly closed the door. He hugged me, and it was the old scent of Julia’s Paris salons, of Gauloises, and clothes not washed often enough, and an unidentifiable whiff of something distinctly artistique, and full of bonhomie and élan.

“How good it is to see you, chérie! And now, you are so much more beautiful than you were at eighteen!”

“But . . . How can you be here? Are you in the clear?”